


oh let's get you your hands back (you gave us a fright)

by Volts



Series: the beacon's only bright enough when the light decides to leave [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Execution, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pain, Paralysis, Physical Disability, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Pain went up and down his spine, like a lighthouse keeper.He groaned hoarsely.He felt very, very, hot.Thirsty.Dry.He hears voices but he can’t move.“Not yet Princess. We - we may need the lute if he’s not…quite settled. We’ll sit up with him tonight.” He knows that voice.~Following his execution and burial, Jaskier breathes...~Sequel to 'he did his job right (you can tell by the way he was swaying last night)' and 'i only move if i must'. I'd recommend reading those first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: the beacon's only bright enough when the light decides to leave [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790521
Comments: 36
Kudos: 177





	oh let's get you your hands back (you gave us a fright)

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'he did his job right (you can tell by the way he was swaying last night)' and 'i only move if i must'. I'd recommend reading those first.
> 
> I'd say this was an 'optional' 'what if' sequel. I liked the way 'I only move if I must' ended, but this is for those of you who (me included) who wanted Jaskier to live. (Also it provided a poetically contrasting bookend to 'he did his job right').
> 
> As always the title is from Robert Hallow and The Holy Men's (unreleased) song 'That Boy' which can be found on youtube if you type in 'Robert Hallow and the Holy Men Grey Leaves' which will take you to a live recording of both songs from 2017. I'd certainly recomend checking out the band, there's a whole album 'Empty Plates' on bandcamp.

_ Someone turn the sun off _ , was his first thought. His eyes… 

… they itched. 

Dry. So dry.

The setting sun sparkled on his lute strings.

Where _was_ he?

The walls were –

_-a short, sharp, drop. A cracking noise close to his ears. A tingling pain in his feet –_

-mud.

A painful twitch of his toe revealed loose soil.

_Fire._

_Fire. So much fire. Smoke._

_A man in black armour, punching out. Ropes stretching his arms above his head, a heavy bucket pulling his legs down._

Fire ran up is spine again. His lungs burned.

His throat caught.

He was – _it was difficult to breath -_ choking.

That was important.

A seagull cawed.

Then came nausea.

He’d had soup - when?

The girl had given it to him.

What girl?

The girl with his lute.

_ His lute? _

His hands feel stiff but it’s his lute they’re holding. He clutches it a little lighter.

There’s sobbing, someone’s crying?

The ferryman. _He was going to meet the ferryman, wasn’t he? Was the ferryman crying?_

Someone... had given him money for it. To get across the river.

Jaskier tried to move a proper inch. Ow.

Pain went up and down his spine, like a lighthouse keeper.

He groaned hoarsely. 

He felt very, very, hot.

Thirsty.

Dry.

He hears voices but he can’t move.

“Not yet Princess. We - we may need the lute if he’s not…quite settled. We’ll sit up with him tonight.” He knows that voice.

A smudge of charcoal. Mead.

Eskel.

_ The ferryman _ …

“- you go to sleep. Madame Yennefer and I will sit up.”

“And Geralt?”

“And Geralt.”

Geralt.

Gold.

Cold.

Black.

~

The moon’s out, waxing slightly.

Jaskier blinks as she bathes him in her soft light.

_Dry._

“ – And that’s the corvus. You can see the beak, there.” _The Ferryman._

“Eist always called it the magpie. At sea they’d salute it for luck, to make sure they’d get home safe.”

“Huh, I’ll have to try that,” Eskel said softly, “And there’s the arrow.”

The stars twinkle.

Like lace agate in a clear pond, the corvus, the arrow, the phoenix, all the constellations spread out before him, at his pleasure. All those tales for him to tell…

The tide is muffled, from where he lies in his grave, but Jaskier can just hear it as it laps against the cliff. His fingers spasm as he flexes them in time with the pull of the waves. In out, in out. Stretch clench, stretch clench.

Floating, on calm waters.

“Hurcoughgm…” _dry dry dry..._

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks. She’s sitting up too! A twinge _shifts_ in his chest.

A stuttering. A _pulse. Blood…_

“Hnarrgh.” Breath. Breathe. There was a _lump -_

_-where was the air?-_

_-_ in his _throat._

“That wasn’t me.” The – _gold -_ voice cracks.

_There’s_ a singing of silver, it cuts through the soft night air. The drawing of a sword.

It would look beautiful in the moonlight.

Shimmering.

A shudder ripples up the cold sweat of Jaskier’s back. His shirt sticks.

Stretch. Clench.

Pins. Needles. They sing, lightening blazing through his nerves. 10 toes.

_All on fire._ Cold soil, a worm, a balm pricking him with ice.

Th-the lute. Smooth wood, under his burning fingers.

The moon is obscured by a dark shadow, a figure leaning over him.

He wants it back. It was comforting. Without it- Without it –

“Stay back Ciri, go sit by Triss.” A shuffle of footprints.

“Did you feel that?” Eskel said, “A… pulse?”

“Yes,” Yennefer breathed.

“Is. Is he...?” Geralt choked out.

“Let’s see,” and the shadow disappeared to be replaced by a purple glow.

Jaskier strained. He pushed.

His hand spasmed –

-a discordant, singular, note rang out.

“Was that-?”

“Is-?”

“It’s not-?”

“Get him out. Get him out!” The gold voice _growls._

“Geralt-”

“Just do it, Eskel,” the purple mist says, briefly dimming-

6 hands grip his biceps and shins and he’s –

_-pain whites out his vision and starfishes out to each limb, every extremity-_

-lifted.

Damp grass. Pain. The light returns.

Choking.

“On his side!” He’s rolled.

He’s got nothing to throw up. The soup, he’d eaten the soup.

He’s empty.

_Dry_.

“Water,” Eskel demands. Yennefer pours liquid into his mouth, down his throat.

There’s a pressure on his hands.

His lute, his lute...?

_Geralt._

“Where am I?” He’s so hoarse, has he been gargling sand?

“Redania. You’re in Redania!”

“How-?” Eskel splutters, “He was dead.”

“Is he-? What’s happening? Did he-did he _move_?” _Ciri!_

Now that oxygen is flooding his brain, he can think more clearly. He has a headache. He can’t really move his limbs without a fire rippling through his nerves, over his skin. It’s like he’s wearing really thick - poker hot - gloves and socks. His neck, his throat, feel as one giant bruise.

“ _Jaskier?”_ Another pressure on his hand, his knuckle.

“G’ralt?!”

“Yeah. It’s me. You’re… here. You’re here!” He’s crying, Jaskier realises in the faint purple haze of Yennefer’s fire.

“How… am I here?”

“I – Yen?”

She’s crying too, her make up smudging. She holds her hands over him, “I- Fringilla did something, to preserve him – your body. And they were experimenting with necromancy, ‘pushing the boundaries of chaos’ she said.”

“My lute. It was like I was split in 2,” Jaskier said, slurring slightly, “Pulled apart. Then I was knit back together.”

“When Geralt put your lute on your chest!” Ciri’s crying, she’s got one hand on his foot, assuring herself he’s living. He can’t really feel it.

“You’ve damaged your spine…” Yennefer said, not gently but not harshly either.

“Your neck is no longer broken but I don’t know how much sensation you’ll regain, I’m afraid.” Triss followed up from where she was sat next to Yennefer, hands also raised above Jaskier’s body.

“My lute...?”

“It’s here,” and Geralt put it on his thighs, kneeling next to him.

Jaskier made a concentrated effort to slump against Geralt’s side, “I love you,” he breathes against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I love you too,” Geralt says, sniffing, putting his arm very carefully around Jaskier’s shoulders, supporting him as he sat. He turned his head and kissed Jaskier gently on the forehead.

He still felt numb, but now he felt warm as well.

“I need a shave. And a bath. Geralt…” He let momentum guide him even closer to Geralt. He was taking a euphoric joy in pressing his beard into Geralt’s neck.

He smelt the same; leather, Roach, camomile soap…

He felt like choking again; tears and snot running down his face. Gods he was going to drown everyone, everyone swimming around, sailing as a rag tag crew, being tossed around on the salty seas until they washed up on the shores of –

“He’s back!” Yennefer huffed, smiling.

“What?”

“You were humming, tapping,” she nodded to his hand on the lute, twitching in rhythm.

He looked at her properly, “Thank you Yennefer. For looking after my body. Cleaning me up and letting me keep some of my dignity.”

She smiled gently, softness behind her wall, “I protect my own.”

“Noted. Who else could you conspire with? We could be in cahoots, Yennefer? Ooh, I could have Geralt Sunday till Tuesday. You get him Thursday -”

“Not a chance. Bath first. Then a negotiation.”

“I look forward to doing business with you,” and with a heavy hand and arm he tried to pat her on the forearm. He barely moved. She patted him, very gently, on his knee. Lightening shot up to his back.

He winced, spasming.

“Liquids, you’re dehydrated. Then food. After that _gentle_ exercise,” Triss prescribed, “Once you have more energy, I can see what I can do.”

“I just want to be able to play again,” the unfelt weight on his knees, tethering him, resting upon his mind. If he concentrated on that, then…

…the reality hadn’t hit him yet.

He had been _dead._ He was _alive again._

“I’m not a wraith, am I? And you’re not just being incredibly nice to me?”

“No,” Geralt rumbled in his ear, tightening his hold on Jaskier a little.

“Vampire?”

“No.”

“Oh. I-” fresh tears sprung from his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. A wave washes over him, salty and iced, “I- I was hanged.”

_The cool breeze against his swaying feet. A **short, sharp, drop.**_

“I’m so sorry!” Ciri bursts out. Eskel pats one of her shoulders, Triss the other.

“Shh shh. I’m alright. I’m okay. Alive.”

He wasn’t alright. He wasn’t even bordering on okay.

But he would be.

Tomorrow Geralt would bathe him, and Yennefer would enjoy holding a sharp blade to his throat again - giving him the closest shave of his life. His lute would fall out of reaching distance for only a moment – a moment enough to send him into a panic.

He may wake up in the middle of the night, feeling disconnected and adrift, face locked in a silent scream, tears blotting the pillow.

(On nights like this Geralt pets his hair, Yennefer brews him calming tea, and they bracket him - warming him against the cold embrace of death).

He may not be the same, he may not walk again – who knew what Triss could do? But he **will** _play_ again.

(And compose and sing and _sing,_ again).

Most importantly, though, Jaskier _lives._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all your support! I could not have done this without encouragement. I'm sure this series would have been forgotten after 'he did his job right' if readers hadn't reminded me that I promised a sequel. Your enthusiasm means so much to me! 
> 
> So, please comment and kudos. This (should) be the last fic in this series but I *am* currently working on other (Witcher) fics!
> 
> You are most welcome to check me out on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


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